


If You Close Your Eyes

by alyxpoe



Series: Snippets of Inspiration for Fanfic [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, John's POV, John's Reichenbach Feels, Love, M/M, Memories, Paris - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Stakeout, hotel room, men having sex, men kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:44:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...a thousand unmade memories...<br/>John takes the chance, did what he feels he should have done all those years ago. In the middle of laughing, he hooks the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls the taller man down to him. Sherlock goes willingly, his knees as soft as his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Close Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> *Grumbles.* I never meant to write *another* post-Reichenbach fic, but here you go. I owe my thanks to the wonderful people over on Tumblr.

Being undercover can sometimes be a combination of the highs of exhilaration, and, if John Watson is completely honest with himself, the lows of absolute boredom; a mirror of the majority of his life. Sometimes the _waiting_ seems to stretch on for eons. At least this time, he can rest while he waits for the budding extortionist to be discovered.

He rests the back of his head against the soft padding of the salon’s chair that’s there for this very purpose; trying to ignore how much hideous pink is riotously splashed about the wide open, brightly lit room. It isn’t that he doesn’t particularly like the color…what bothers him are the memories this particular shade conjures up. That takes him to considering colors and what they have come to mean: red, white, blue, royal purple; so very different from _scarlet_ , _eggshell_ , _navy_ , and _lilac_.

Indeed.

Silly thoughts; the heat from the cloth spread on his three days’ worth of stubble must really be relaxing him.

The stylist returns from his errand and tucks a towel under his chin and removes the one that it is now cooling on his jaw. John looks up at the man, who is pleasantly smiling down at him as if there is nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than lathering up John's face. John decides he's taking that as a compliment.

With the first clean swipe of the razor to his cheek, John feels himself being lulled into a half sleep there in the center chair of an almost empty salon in the middle of three-day stake out in Paris.

_“Voulez-vous la musique , monsieur?”_

John hears the stylist speak to him through the haze of one who is almost asleep. He opens one eye and studies the young man for a moment before answering, turning over the words in his head. French was never his strong suit, but he is fairly certain the man asked if he would like to listen to some music.

“ _Oui_ ,” John answers; might as well enjoy himself. 

The stylist sets the razor down in a little glass of what John assumes is water, then stands gracefully and moves out of his line of sight. After a few seconds, he returns with a ghastly pink iPod and a set of earbuds. He gently coaxes John to raise his head and puts the earbuds into place. They are so small, along with the wire behind John’s head as to be unobtrusive. John smiles as the first beats of a new song begins in his ears.

“ _Merci,”_ he tells the stylist. The young man nods, brushes back a lock of shiny auburn hair over his ear and returns to shaving John’s face. John decides that this is the best stakeout they’ve ever been on as he lets his eyelids slip closed. The stylist is going to start with a shave, after that, the warm flannel will be back and John somehow agreed to have a ‘facial.’ Not being the most _metrosexual_ of men, even if he is bi, he’s a bit nervous about what exactly that particular service is going to entail.

A commercial plays into his ears; he listens closely, making out as much as he can about the exciting things that will be happening to celebrate _Quatorze juillet_ , the fourteenth of July: Bastille Day. Ironically, the next song that plays is by an English band that goes by the same name.

As the itchy stubble is removed from his face with gentle but efficient strokes, John trusts that the man isn’t intending on slitting his throat and allows his mind to wander. It seems that no matter how long the consulting detective has been back in his life, in his quiet moments his brain returns to the time surrounding what John will always consider to be Sherlock’s greatest betrayal of _them_ as well as his greatest triumph.

_I was left to my own devices_

_Many days fell away with nothing to show_

He remembers saying those gut-wrenching words to a black headstone. “I was so alone.”

_…the walls kept tumbling down_

_In the city that we love_

Yeah, they love it. Sherlock Holmes loved it enough that he was prepared to die to protect those he cares the most about—and by extension, most of London’s citizens, too. God, it still hurts, though. So much.

Then his memories switch to standing on a train car, staring down at someone who was almost like a stranger to him; a man who was always in such _control_ of himself—moisture standing in his eyes while that man stares into an open compartment with a bloody bomb in it. John remembers looking at him and making the choice to _stay_ rather than _run_.

_If you close your eyes_

_Does it almost feel like_

_Nothing changed at all?_

John snorts, startling the stylist, whose eyes widen as he deftly pulls the blade away from John’s skin. He can feel a blush staining his cheeks. The stylist merely shakes his head and just as quickly returns to his task.

_We were caught up and lost in all our vices_

_In your pose as the dust settled around us_

Yep, John can agree with that. Sherlock’s biggest vice was the utterly _unbreakable defense_ of an otherwise quite fragile ego. “Alone protects me.”

No.

John had his vices, too; especially the biggest one—his stubborn refusal to acknowledge his…well, there’s no other word for it, is there? His _feelings_ where his best friend was concerned. In his darkest moments, he wonders if allowing those _things_ to come to light would have saved him from seeing that _pose_ over and over in his head—a figure falling, always falling, black coat tails swirling on the draft as the body drops forever.

The memory of those moments, that body lying flat out on the pavement…the blood.. _scarlet_ , _crimson_ …John wills his mind back to control, but first he must admit that the dust that settled around them was really the debris of a thousand unmade memories. Memories of everything that ‘could have been’ and how they were exchanged for ‘never’ when the mad genius _fell_.

John remembers how he fell, too, into a deep despair. Clutching a tumbler of scotch while staring at the hint of a shy smile on a dead man’s lips as the video played on his telly, “Happy Birthday, John.”

_Great clouds roll over the hills_

_Bringing darkness from above_

God. John’s eyes squeeze tight against the memory, the pain of his heart being severed in half while he was forced to continue living.

Later: Mary. That certainly didn’t change anything, either. Really, it was like being in the wake of a volcanic disaster.

And then…then it was all over. One night, not so long ago, standing in the foyer…everything _changed_. Maybe the stars were aligned just right, maybe they had each been through _enough_ …but finally…

_If you close your eyes_

_Does it almost feel like_

_Nothing changed at all?_

_And if you close your eyes_

_Does it almost feel like_

_You’ve been here before_?

John takes the chance, did what he feels he should have done all those years ago. In the middle of laughing, he hooks the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls the taller man down to him. Sherlock goes willingly, his knees as soft as his lips.

_Where do we begin_

_In the city that we love? The rubble or our sins?_

Yes, the rubble could finally be cleared away. The detritus that piled up between them when one made the decision to force the other to live alone. They both have sins, no doubt: the sin of forgetting the other’s heart and what they meant to one another.

_If you close your eyes…_

Something soft caresses John’s now-smooth jawline and removes the earbud from his left ear. John opens his eyes to find himself pinned by the piercing gaze of the man who has held his heart caged in his big hand since the first time they found one another in their respective sights.

“John,” Sherlock whispers; as ever, John has no doubts that the detective could see just what he was thinking. He touches the corner of John’s eye with his index finger, holds it long enough for John to see the tiny crystal of his own tear and then slowly brings the finger to his lips; a tiny swipe of rosy tongue and the tear is gone. Sherlock’s burning emerald gaze never leaves his face, even as he rests his hand on John’s thigh.

It means a great deal to both of them, without a doubt, but exactly _what_ , neither man knows how to put into words.

“It’s over.” Sherlock tugs lightly at John’s arms, helping him sit up and not letting go as he gets to his feet. They walk closely down the steps to the pavement, steps synchronized to one another as they cross the street. In their world, there is only the two of them.

The hotel Mycroft set them up in is not a far walk, though by the way they seem to cling to one other without actually touching, any passerby would think it wasn’t close enough.

***

_And the walls kept tumbling down..._

The marching tempo of the refrain seem to play out again in John’s mind as he arches his back, Sherlock’s ankles locked at the small of his back. The walls around both of their hearts have fallen to ruin, fortresses-once-turned-into-prisons now open to permit the oft concealed emotions to move easily from man to man.

John thrusts again and Sherlock throws his head back in ecstasy, a long, low moan that ends with a growl as John grabs his hips and _pulls_ him down hard onto his aching cock. Sherlock surges upward, long fingers pressing against the back of John’s head in order to press his face against his own, tongues fighting for dominance even as Sherlock’s body submits to the power his mind had shunned for so long.

That thought, that he’s been the only one to storm that particular fortress in so long…that thought is so erotic that John loses all control when Sherlock’s body clamps down on him. Sherlock’s climax pulses strongly between them, John’s hands nowhere near Sherlock’s cock, but clutching his hips, powerfully stroking him inside and Sherlock is begging now, _I’m yours John, all yours_ …

John slows his thrusts down enough that Sherlock forces him to open his eyes with an even stronger roll of his hips that leaves John gasping, on the edge, waiting…the smell of sex infusing the air around them…John clamps his jaw, controlling his orgasm to allow the last echoes of the song from earlier to wash over him as he stares into Sherlock’s face, their eyes mimicking their bodies, temporarily fused, unable to _see_ anything else…

_Does it almost feel like_

_You’ve been here before_?

John knows he’s been right _here_ before; in his wildest fantasies. Nothing…absolutely nothing can ever match the reality of moments like these.

“John,” Sherlock purrs, tightening his legs on John’s hips, meeting him thrust for thrust. “I want to see you come.”

And that’s enough…those words in _that_ voice and John comes and Sherlock bucks beneath him and it doesn’t stop, only rolls over him, threatens to pull him under. Everything is so crystal clear—the pearls of sweat on Sherlock’s forehead and his upper lip, the sheen of moisture John can feel on his own chest, that single raven/auburn/charcoal curl over Sherlock’s eye and along with it, the tears that they no longer seek to hide…the ones that only come out when they are both still feeling the old wounds of loss and the sting of regret…and the new, fathoms deep,…infinities deep… _that emotion_ that was so tough to finally admit to…but it is here now; as heavy and as weightless as only it can be.

“Never again, Sherlock. No one will ever take you from me again,” John pants against the top of Sherlock’s head when he at last comes back to himself, the detective curls around him, head on his chest beneath John’s chin; always their breathing as synchronized as their steps.

“No,” is the almost subsonic vibrations of the answer against John’s bare skin that he doesn’t have to hear to understand.

Beyond the windows, a salmon and turquoise dusk pours its rainbow through the narrow opening left between the heavy white drapes.They were too busy earlier to pay it much heed. Now, it is a welcome intrusion.

John’s eyes slip closed as his arms tighten over the broad, muscled shoulders of his love, his pride, his everything. Sherlock squeezes back and sometimes, that right there? Sometimes that’s almost too much for John to bear…but it is nothing to fear. Not anymore.

If he’s learned nothing else, it is that once the walls crumble, the fortress is stormed and the flames have cleansed away the dirt and debris…there’s no use trying to hide it from someone who has shared the experience with you.

“I love you,” John whispers.

“Yes,” Sherlock rumbles.

John smiles, drops a kiss to the crown of soft curls beneath his chin. Soft whispers of gratitude for second chances dance on the tip of his tongue; saying them is unnecessary. This time, John thinks, when those walls are rebuilt, they come up _around_ them rather than _between_ them.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and this time, his voice clearer. He actually rubs his cheek over John’s chest and John laughs quietly, happy to exist in the moment that always seemed to be out of reach.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: All the references to Bastille. I know you all got them ;) I couldn't resist that particular metaphor.


End file.
